

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



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THE DANCING-MASTER 



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Cfie i^ammg=^as;ter 


BY 

LILLIAN TRIMBLE BRADLEY 


NEW YORK 

MINDEN-BURKERT PRINTING CO. 
1914 



Copyright, 1914, by 
Lilliak Trtmbije Bbadljsy 


MAY 1314 


I 



©CI.A371880 

A-0 ; 




THE DANCING MASTER 


I 

In one of the great Charity Insti- 
tutions for unfortunate women, which 
could well be called the “Home for 
Unhappy Mothers,” as hourly in this 
institution the tragedy of a new little 
life begins without hope and in shadow. 
The Lady Patronesses of the Institu- 
tion have assembled to discuss the ne- 
cessity for new beds for the comfort 
and wellbeing of these poor unfortu- 
nate women who apply daily in their 
distress, discouraged and deserted at 
the hour when they most need the 
help and encouragement of the men 
[ 5 ] 


responsible for their condition. “We 
have now forty women in the Institu- 
tion,” said Mrs. Wainright, one of 
those narrow-minded righteous women, 
who think that, with the feeding and 
sheltering of these unhappy beings, 
her charity is accomplished and her 
responsibility ends, “and twenty babies 
are waiting for adoption. By to-mor- 
row, according to Dr. West, we will 
have about ten more. I suggest that 
we send the twenty now here to the 
Foundling Asylum.” 

“But,” objected Mrs. Bell, “the 
Foundling Asylum has its full capacity 
now.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Wainright, “but 
that is not our business, we must get 
them off our hands.” 

“Why not wait a little longer,” 

[ 6 ] 


went on Mrs. Bell. ‘‘Are we not in- 
vestigating in the West for homes for 
these twenty babies?” 

“The Rules for adoption are en- 
tirely too strict in our Institution, I 
move that this committee pass, here 
and now, a rule, that it will be suffi- 
cient for any one applying for a baby, 
to present a good bank reference.” 

This was agreed to by the other 
ladies of the committee, and the Ma- 
tron informed of the change in the 
Rules. 

“Why not let the applicant take 
the child on trial for two weeks?” 
suggested Mrs. Bell. “That will give 
our committee a chance to investigate. 
If we find the person does not possess 
the proper qualifications, and is not up 
to the standard we require for adop- 
[ 7 ] 


tion, we have still the right to take 
back the child and provide for it else- 
where.” 

“Good idea,” answered Mrs. Wain- 
right. “In that way the babies will be 
provided for, for at least two weeks.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Cowperthwait, 
laughing, “that means two weeks’ free 
board.” 

Mrs. Cheney then read to the com- 
mittee the matron’s weekly report, in 
w^hich was included a request for new 
mattresses and blankets. “They are 
always complaining and wanting new 
things,” she said, as she finished the 
report. 

“Thej’' ought to be thankful to get 
any kind of a bed. Don’t you think,” 
answered Mrs. Wainright, gently, 
“that if we are trying to bring the 
[ 8 ] 


poor things back to a better life we 
might at least make them as comfort- 
able as possible and not make them 
dread coming to us? For you know 
it is the Devil drags them down to him 
only too often with luxuries of various 
kinds/’ 

“We can take that up at our next 
meeting,” said Mrs. Bell, a little im- 
patiently. “The secretary is advised 
to have printed the new rule for adop- 
tion, as passed at the meeting, and to 
notify all the various patrons and 
heads of the departments of the Insti- 
tute of the fact that this change in the 
rule goes into effect immediately.” 
Through the open door of the commit- 
tee-room the nurses can be seen, in the 
rear of the building, passing to and 
fro, some hurrying along with little 

[ 9 ] 


live bundles, others lingering curiously, 
trying to see the ladies of the commit- 
tee assembled in the office. 

The discussions on the wants and 
necessities of the Institution being con- 
cluded, the committee adjourned and 
the charitable ladies hastened away, 
the majority of them dismissing, with 
the finish of the meeting, all thoughts 
of the institution and the mothers and 
babies. Mrs. Wainright, however, is 
still lingering in the office when a 
sweet-faced little nurse, with smiling 
countenance, hastens through the of- 
fice, carrying the usual little bundle. 

“Oh, let me look at it nurse! My, 
what an exceptionally pretty baby this 
little one is! It can’t be just born, 
I’m sure. It’s too pretty for that.” 

“Oh, no,” replied the nurse. “This 

[ 10 ] 


one is four weeks old, and a real little 
darling.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Wainright, a little 
confused, “you see I know so little 
about new babies, having none of my 
own. At times I wish I could take 
the whole asylum and mother them all. 
What do they call this one?” 

“Carina is the name her mother has 
selected for her, but you know, madam, 
they are only numbers here until a 
home is found for them, and this one 
is number thirteen. Poor little thing!” 

“It seems an unlucky start, doesn’t 
it?” replied Mrs. Wainright. “You 
say the mother is still here, after four 
weeks? How is that? That is over 
the stay limit, is it not?” 

“She is leaving to-day,” answered 
the nurse, “for a convalescent home, as 
[ 11 ] 


Dr. West considers her case hopeless. 
She has begged so hard not to be 
separated from her baby, that an ex- 
ception has been made, and little No. 
13 has become our pet. Besides, this 
case is quite unusual, as the mother has 
a marriage certificate. She is an Ital- 
ian, and from what I have been able 
to learn from time to time, she is 
the youngest daughter of a very fine 
family. She fell in love with her danc- 
ing-master. When her family discov- 
ered this fact, they made it so un- 
pleasant for him that he decided to 
leave Italy and start anew in Ameri- 
ca, where he had been led to expect 
fame and fortune were to be so easily 
acquired. As near as I can under- 
stand, he persuaded the girl to marry 
him secretly, promising to send for her 
[ 12 ] 


as soon as he was established and 
could provide a home for her. The 
last letters she received from him, and 
which she gave me to read, hoping I 
could help her find her husband (you 
see, I am her countrywoman), showed 
he had been trying to follow his pro- 
fession, that of dancing-master, and 
had not met with great success; he 
begged her to wait a little longer be- 
fore she joined him. Weeks and 
months passed by and never another 
word. Finally, her condition became 
apparent, her family asked an expla- 
nation from her, and, when they 
learned the truth, demanded that she 
immediately institute proceedings for 
a divorce. On her refusal to do so 
they disowned her and told her to go 
to her husband, as she had disgraced 
[ 13 ] 


them. In despair at her family’s ac- 
tion, she came to New York to try to 
find her husband, and applied at the 
address where she had sent her let- 
ters. She had a little money, and the 
Italian family where her husband had 
lived consented to keep her. All her 
efforts to find her husband were fruit- 
less, he seemed to have completely dis- 
appeared from the face of the earth, 
and when her money gave out she 
tried to find some kind of employment. 
But as she was undoubtedly a lady and 
unaccustomed to work she was soon 
discharged for incompetency. Her 
condition prevented her from securing 
a position as clerk or other similar oc- 
cupation, in which she could have suc- 
ceeded.” 

“It is indeed a sad story. But why 
[ 14 ] 


didn’t she write to her family?” said 
Mrs. Wainright. 

“She did, but all her letters came 
back unopened,” replied the nurse. 
“She finally applied here. We tried 
to send her to the Italian consul, but 
she refused to go, and as her condition 
was imperative, the people she was 
staying with refusing to keep her any 
longer, we had to take her.” 

“Poor little mother and poor little 
No. 13,” said Mrs. Wainright, full 
of compassion. “We must try to do 
something for them. Ask the secre- 
tary to write and remind me of them,” 
and with a sad look at the little bun- 
dle Mrs. Wainwright left the room, 
to return to her luxurious Fifth Ave- 
nue home, where the laughter of little 
children was never heard. Old John, 
[15] 


the handy man around the institution, 
who had listened to the foregoing con- 
versation, looked at the fine lady go 
out, muttering to himself a lot of words 
but very little help. 

“Nurse Lucy, let me look at our lit- 
tle No. 13.” 

“Well, old John, take her for a 
minute, I must go into the next room 
to speak to the doctor.” 

A smile lit up old John’s wrinkled 
face as he took the baby in his arms, 
with the same tender care a mother 
would have given. They were both 
dependent on charity, he and the baby 
— two children in life, one at the be- 
ginning, the other at the end. In his 
younger days John had been a famous 
clown, and had learned to love chil- 
dren, having seen them laugh so heart- 
[ 16 ] 


ily at his antics, and that laughter had 
become part of his life, so that when 
he found himself an old man and with- 
out money, too broken to win any more 
the laughter and applause of a criti- 
cal public, he asked the charity or- 
ganization to send him where he could 
work among children, and that is how, 
at the age of seventy-three, we find 
him still caring for and attending, 
where little live bundles are passed 
along from day to day. As the old 
man was smiling at the little one he 
held so carefully, a woman entered the 
room; in her poor little black dress 
and shabby hat she looked pale and 
wan. Her sorrowful, big black eyes 
and fine face looked like the ghost of 
one of Raphael’s Madonnas. The 
sickness, sorrow, and suffering of all 
[ 17 ] 


the world was there. She walked with 
a great effort and every movement 
showed the ravages of a mortal illness. 
As she entered, old John turned round 
and, seeing her, put the bab}^ tenderly 
on the sofa and went to assist the poor 
little mother, who sank exhausted on 
the sofa by the side of her child. She 
looked down at the baby indifferently 
until she recognized that it was her 
own; then, with a stifled cry, she tried 
to take the little one in her arms and 
spoke to it in her mother tongue : 
‘‘Carina! bambina mia!” John goes 
to her and tries to take the baby from 
her, fearing she might let it fall. 

“Oh, John! let me hold her, my own 
darling, I thought I could go without 
her, but I really cannot ” 

The matron at this moment came in, 

[ 18 ] 


saying, “It’s time to go, Mrs. Ancona, 
the carriage is waiting.” 

“Oh, do give me a few minutes more 
with my baby, I cannot, Dio mio. I 
cannot leave her, I must take her 
with me.” 

“You know quite well, my dear, 
that such a course is impossible,” said 
the matron. “We have been through 
all this before, it only upsets you; do 
try and be reasonable, we’ll take care 
of your baby, and as soon as you are 
well you can come for her.” 

The poor little mother drops on her 
knees by the couch, and between her 
sobs she talks to the little unconscious 
being. “God bless and protect my 
baby, m}^ own little darling, and if I 
shouldn’t come back to you, if it is 
God’s will that I should be taken, let 
[ 19 ] 


Him send you some good kind woman 
to take care of you until your father 
conies to claim you. Poor little thing, 
what remembrance will you have of 
your mother? None! I have not even 
a keepsake to give you. Ah, yes, I 
have this paper, it is all I possess 
now.” 

With shaking fingers she takes from 
her bosom a square envelope and slips 
it into the baby’s clothes, and, with a 
last loving and sorrowful look, she 
permits the matron and old John, his 
eyes full of tears, to carry her away. 
On their return to the room the matron 
and John found a very elegant, tall, 
blonde woman, perhaps a little over- 
dressed and altogether too flashy to 
be in very good taste, standing gazing 
[ 20 ] 


pensively at the little bundle on the 
sofa. She turned to the matron, say- 
ing, ‘‘I am Mrs. Frempel. I wish to 
adopt a baby, a girl, and was sent here. 
Have you any child you can recom- 
mend. I want one with black eyes and 
a few weeks old, if possible.” 

“Oh, we have several I can show 
you.” 

“Well, how about this one on the 
couch? It looks all right to me and 
is really quite cute.” 

“No,” put in old John, going over 
to the sofa in a kind of protesting 
manner, “this one is not to go. You 
know, matron, you promised.” 

“Why shouldn’t I have this one?” 
asked Mrs. Frempel. “I quite like 
it.” 


[ 21 ] 


‘'Won’t you let me show you some 
others?” said the matron. “We have 
some very nice babies here.” 

“No,” replied Mrs. Frempel. “I 
have quite decided on this one and 
must insist on having it.” 

“Well,” temporized the matron, “if 
you have set your mind on having this 
one, I don’t see, after all, why you 
shouldn’t have it. You know, John, 
the mother will never come back again, 
so why not provide for the child?” 

Mrs. Frempel rose, saying, “I’ll 
take her this minute. Here are my 
credentials. Will you let this man go 
down and ask my footman to bring up 
one of the carriage robes?” 

Very reluctantly John went down 
and brought the footman. Mrs. Frem- 
[ 22 ] 


pel signed some papers and, thanks to 
the new rule passed that day, she was 
enabled to take the child with her im- 
mediately. John took the robe from 
the footman and wrapped up the baby 
carefully and tenderly, murmuring all 
the time soft words of goodby to the 
baby, and pity for the poor mother. 
He started to hand the precious bun- 
dle to Mrs. Frempel, who motioned 
him to hand it to the footman, who 
took it with a disgusted and annoyed 
air, holding the baby as if it was a tray 
of bric-a-brac. Mrs. Frempel thanked 
everybody profusely and followed the 
bundle out. Old John called to her: 

“The baby’s name is Carina. She 
will be happier if you don’t change it, 
as her mother gave it to her.” 

[ 23 ] 


“Carina, that means darling,’' said 
Mrs. Frempel, “and is very pretty. 
Carina she shall remain.” 

“Thank you,” said John. “But what 
shall we tell her poor mother if she 
comes back?” 

The matron looked at him, wonder- 
ing why the old man was so soft- 
hearted. “She will never come back, 
John, the doctor says she is incurable.” 


[ 24 ] 


II 

Five weeks later, in this same office, 
old John was at his usual daily occu- 
pation of escorting with dignity the lit- 
tle bundles from corridor to corridor. 
Suddenly a man of most unusual ap- 
pearance burst into the room. His 
manner was so violent that for a mo- 
ment John feared for the safety of 
the Institution. He was alone in the 
office, and the man attacked him with 
a million questions, first in Italian and 
then in English. After John had suc- 
ceeded in calming him, he understood 
that the man was demanding some one 
of the name of Ancona. 

[ 25 ] 


“My wife! My baby! Madam An- 
cona — here?” 

After some minutes John remem- 
bered that the mother of little No. 13 
was known as Madam Ancona. 

“Oh, yes, you mean the Italian 
woman, the mother of little No. 13.” 

“I don’t know what you mean by 
No. 13. I want my wife — take me to 
her.” 

John realized that he must tell this 
poor man that his wife is dead, that he 
has come too late. 

Then John, as gently as possible, 
told him that his wife had been taken 
away. 

“Taken where? Tell me, do tell me. 
I don’t understand.” 

“My poor man, it is really hard to 
tell you. Have courage, be brave.” 

[26] 


‘‘What do you mean? You can- 
not mean she is — dead. Surely you 
do not mean that? Do you know 
who Madam Ancona is? She is my 
wife, and they tell me there is a baby, 
my baby. Where is she?” 

“Listen, your poor wife is dead.” 

“No! No! No! It is impossible; 
she cannot be dead. La mia cara. 
Marietta, but how? Tell me, tell 
me.” 

John explained to him how ill she 
was after the baby came, that they 
took her away to a home for incurables, 
where, like a southern rose touched by 
winter’s frosts, she faded gradually 
away and the end came about ten days 
ago. 

The man stood silent, a grief- 
stricken image, his head bowed, only 
[ 27 ] 


repeating “La Mia bella Marietta! 
Morta Dio mio! Dio mio!’’ 

At that moment the matron came in, 
followed by a nurse, carrying a baby. 

At the sight of the baby Ancona 
seemed to remember, and startled the 
nurse by trying to take the baby, ask- 
ing, “Is this my child, the child of 
Marietta Ancona?” 

The matron told him that the child 
of Marietta Ancona had been adopted 
and had a good home. 

“It is my child and I want it. What 
do I care for a good home? I will 
give it a good home.” 

“What would you do with a little 
girl? You ought to be happy that she 
is well provided for.” 

“It’s a little girl? My little girl?” 

“Yes,” interrupted John, “a beau- 

[ 28 ] 


tiful little girl; very much like her 
mother, and her mother named her Ca- 
rina.” 

“Where is she? Who has taken 
her? My baby, I’ll go and claim her.” 

“It is impossible to tell you,” said 
the matron. “It would be against our 
rules. Once a child is adopted and 
the references given to us prove satis- 
factory, we never reveal the identity 
of the person adopting a child.” 

“But,” said John, “in this case you 
can surely make an exception.” 

“That rule is adamant.” 

“But you can’t give away a human 
being. A child belongs to its father 
and mother, what right have you to 
give it away?” 

In spite of all his prayers and en- 
treaties, the woman left the room. 

[ 29 ] 


Ancona appealed to old John to help 
him find his baby. 

“If you have money, go to the po- 
lice. They’ll find anybody for money. 

If you are poor ” 

“But I am poor! I am a poor danc- 
ing-master, and you can’t make money 
without friends or reputation teaching 
dancing in New York. They told 
me I could do better in California, 
and that is where I was going when 
the train was wrecked, and most of 
my bones broken. I was out of my 
head for months and months, and even 
after I was all right it was hard to 
convince the people in the hospital 
that it was safe for me to leave. The 
moment I was discharged as cured I 
came back to New York. I arrived 
this morning and went to the house 
[ 30 ] 


where I had lived before, and there I 
learned of my poor Marietta. It was 
hard enough to get pupils before my 
accident, but now the people laugh at 
me and say I look like a clown.” 

“A good idea,” interrupted old 
John. “There is no place where you 
see so many children as in a circus, 
why not be a clown? And perhaps 
one day you may find your child that 
way.” 

“But how could I become a clown 
in a circus?” 

“That’s where I can help you,” an- 
swered old John. “I was a clown 
once, and the most famous one of my 
time. They may have forgotten me, 
but surely not my name. I adopt you. 
From now on you are Sol, Junior. 
Take this card to Mr. Bailey, of the 
[ 31 ] 


Barnum & Bailey Circus, he will know 
that if I recommend a clown that he 
is sure to be funny, and remember, 
be funny, funnier than you have ever 
been in your life; you look funny 
enough with the legs you have.” 

“I’ll try to be funny, and thank you 
for your help. I will remember that 
I am your adopted clown and always 
I shall be looking for my baby, and 
when I find her I will owe it to you.” 

“I wish you luck, come back and 
see me. I am an old man and have 
outlived my friends.” 

Fifteen years later, on a sunny 
afternoon, in one of the big hospitals, 
which devotes a gi’eat deal of space to 
its ward for crippled children, all 
preparations had been completed for 
[ 32 ] 


a great event. The day will be long 
remembered by the children, and the 
attendants. Barniim & Bailey’s Cir- 
cus was giving a gratuitous perform- 
ance for the little crippled children. 
They watched with glee the wonderful 
feats of the acrobats. Even the staid 
doctors joined in the merriment, while 
the performers, affected by the at- 
mosphere of joy they were dispelling, 
redoubled their efforts. The four bal- 
conies facing the quadrangle were 
lined with patients. 

The performers, all of whom volun- 
teered, came to the hospital courtyard 
in their make up, with Sol as a spot- 
light. They did their tricks amid gen- 
erous applause. First came Bill Eas- 
ton, the cowboy, then the Ah Lid 
troupe of Chinese wizards, who pro- 
[ 33 ] 


duced things from out of the air, while 
the children looked with eyes enlarged 
with wonder. 

But the true place in the children’s 
hearts were found when the clowns be- 
gan their grotesque cavortings. 

Little children, some with broken 
legs, others with dread maladies, were 
propped temporarily in bed to watch 
the show. “No one can realize what 
this means to the children,” said Dr. 
Hamlin, superintendent of the hos- 
pital. “It will carry them through the 
trying summer.” 

The great clown, Sol, lingered be- 
hind after the others had gone, and he 
shook hands heartily with all the chil- 
dren, watching them intently, and hav- 
ing for each one a merry word and a 
funny face to make them laugh. He 
[ 34 ] 


seemed as loath to leave them as they 
were to part with him. 

Had poor old John been there he 
would have been proud of his successor. 

Out of the crowd of people that 
came forward to shake hands with this 
clown of international reputation, and 
thank him for devoting his afternoon 
to this splendid and worthy charity, 
came a sweet-faced girl of about fif- 
teen years of age. 

Her large dark eyes in her rather 
sad face, for so young a girl, only 
lighted up when she smiled. 

When Sol took the hand she ex- 
tended, her first words startled him 
as being familiar, and he studied her 
face intently for a moment. He had 
a feeling they had met before. 

“You seem to love those poor little 
[ 35 ] 


children as I do,” she said, “and it 
seems a pity that you could not come 
once a week.” 

“But I can and will,” said Sol, “at 
least for a time. What day do you 
come, and why?” 

“I come every Friday afternoon, 
and why? Just because I love them 
and they like to have me.” 

“Weil, I shall come every Friday 
afternoon and meet you here.” 

“How splendid of you. I’ll be here 
next Friday at three o’clock.” 

That’s how their friendship began, 
and it ripened so rapidly that he could 
hardly remember when he had not 
gone to her mother’s house for dinner 
on Sunday evenings. He long re- 
membered the first evening he spent 
there. One incident alone marks it 
[ 36 ] 


indelibly upon his memory. He had 
only been there a few minutes when 
he heard a charming voice calling 
softly, “Carina, Carina, where are 
you?” 

That was the name he had in all 
those years longed most to hear. In 
his first days in the circus he used to 
ask the children, who came to see him, 
their names, with a mad hope that 
some one would answer Carina, and 
now some one was calling it. 

A wild thought came into his heart ; 
that his own little girl would come run- 
ning into the room. 

And then Miss Frempel, his little 
hostess and companion of the Fridays 
at the hospital, came in. 

He never knew how and why he 
found himself telling her the story of 
[ 37 ] 


his little Carina, suddenly her eyes 
were full of tears and she reminded 
him that his little Carina would not 
be a baby, but a young lady, as she 
was. And then, too, he realized for 
the first time that even if he found 
her she would be lost for him, as some- 
body else would have had her all those 
years, and he would find a young lady 
and not the baby he was still looking 
for. 

Then Mrs. Frempel came in and 
they were interrupted. In all his 
visits to Carina he never but once had 
seen her father, he was seldom there, 
and appeared to him a big brutal man 
and, without knowing why, he resented 
him. 

One night in April Sol’s telephone 
rang violently. 


[ 38 ] 


It was Carina calling him, asking 
him to come, that there had been some 
trouble between her mother and father. 
He went immediately, and when he ar- 
rived at the house he found poor Mrs. 
Frempel had been strangled half to 
death, and there were signs of a vio- 
lent scene. 

All that Carina knew was that her 
father had come home late, he had 
been drinking and was very abusive 
to her. Her mother had remonstrated 
with him and had ordered Carina to 
leave them. 

From upstairs Carina could hear 
some violent words, and when she 
could stand it no longer she came 
down, to find the street-door open and 
her mother lying unconscious on the 
floor in the parlor. 

[ 39 ] 


Mrs. Frempel seemed to be in rather 
a dazed condition when Sol appeared, 
and she undoubtedly did not wish to 
take him into her confidence. She 
seemed broken and terrified, and only 
asked him if he would take them to 
some hotel. 

Carina put her arms around her 
mother’s neck, trjdng to comfort her. 
Mrs. Frempel only repeated, “What 
have I done? What have I done?” 

“How very unfortunate all this hap- 
pens just when I am sailing for Eu- 
rope,” said Sol. “I cannot postpone 
my departure any longer than I have. 
The steamer leaves to-morrow, and I 
shall only be in time, as it is, for the 
opening performance in London. 

“But I have a good idea, why not, 
as I am going away, go and stay at 
[ 40 ] 


my apartment? It would be much 
more comfortable for you than a ho- 
tel.” 

Mrs. Frempel demurred at first. 
Then, finally, accepted it as a tem- 
porary abode, and Sol promised to 
come the next morning and see them 
comfortably installed before he sailed. 
It all seemed rather mysterious to him, 
but he felt some delicacy in asking any 
questions, and only saw in them two 
poor, distressed women that he could 
help. 

The next morning, when Sol ar- 
rived at the house, for the first time 
in many years he had the feeling that 
he was really necessary to some one. 
Carina met him with a smile of con- 
fidence and affection, and said her 
mother would be down in a few 
[ 41 ] 


minutes. He inquired if she had 
passed a good night. She came down 
the stairs dressed for the street. 

The maid brought their bags and 
they were ready to leave when sud- 
denly the door opened and the man 
whom he knew as Mr. Frempel burst 
into the room in a drunken condition. 
He stopped at the sight of them, and 
took in at a glance the fact that he 
had come just in time if he wished to 
prevent their departure. In a fury 
of rage he turned to Sol: 

“You are taking them away, are 
you? So, perhaps you are the father 
of this young person?” 

“I don’t understand, w^hat do you 
mean?” 

“Well, I have thought for the last 
fifteen years I was her father, but last 
[ 42 ] 


night I learned I had been mistaken.’’ 

“Please,” pleaded Mrs. Frempel, 
“not before Carina. Don’t! Let me 
explain it to her.” 

“Let you explain ! No! You might 
tell a pack of lies to some other man. 
I’d like this high and mighty young 
lady to know the truth. I’ll tell her 
myself. Why should I spare her? 
Did you spare me?” 

Sol went over to Carina as if to 
shield her from something, he knew not 
what. 

“Last night,” went on the man, 
turning to Carina, “y^^^ could not en- 
dure my kisses, you little upstart, be- 
cause I was drunk, and when I tried 
to reprimand you, your fine mother 
here wouldn’t stand it. And when I 
handled you a little by force, she or- 
[ 43 ] 


dered you to leave the room. I would 
have followed you and conquered you 
all right, but she stopped me, by in- 
forming me that I was not your 
father, that you were just a com- 
mon ” 

Sol jumped toward him with a 
threatening attitude, and Mrs. Frem- 
pel fell on her knees, imploring him: 

“I didn’t say that, that’s not true. 
For God’s sake, spare her.” 

“No, did you spare me? Besides, 
I’ve always hated her. And you, 
you’re a common blackmailer. For 
fifteen years I’ve kept you and your 
brat. I’ve paid for this house and paid 
for her education. You’re a common 
blackmailer. To-morrow I’ll have you 
in jail.” 

Carina, whose face through all this 
[ 44 ] 


outburst had reflected many emotions, 
suddenly found her voice and, in a 
fury of rage at his last words, sprang 
toward him. 

“If I’m not your daughter, I am 
glad of it. You have always been a 
beast to me, ever since I was a little 
child. I’d rather be anything than 
your daughter, and don’t you dare 
speak to my mother that way,” She 
put her arms protectingly around her 
mother, begging her to leave the house. 

He tried to stop them, when Sol in- 
terfered and threw him out of the way. 
They left him in the hall, screaming 
like a madman. On their way to Sol’s 
quarters not a word was spoken. 
When they arrived, Mrs. Frempel said 
she could not explain for the present, 
and he must trust her and that she 
[ 45 ] 


would tell him all one day. He an- 
swered that it was not necessary to ex- 
plain anjdhing to him, that he believed 
in her, but that he must now leave 
them at once in order not to miss his 
boat. They must promise to stay there 
until he returned and write to him. 

Mrs. Frempel tried to thank him, 
but broke down. The girl impulsively 
put her arms around his neck and 
kissed him. He held her in his arms 
a moment and rushed out. 

They carried on a correspondence 
during the entire summer, and al- 
though Carina tried to be cheerful in 
her letters, Sol could understand that 
there was a great struggle. They had 
left his apartment and were living now 
at No. 22 West Eleventh Street. On 
[ 46 ] 


his return to New York he was sur- 
prised when he arrived at their door 
to see a small sign reading: “Made- 
moiselle Carina, Dancing Class for 
Children.” He rang the bell with a 
fluttering heart. He was ushered into 
a rather large and what seemed at 
first an emptj^ room by a neat maid 
servant. The picture that met his 
eyes when he became accustomed to 
the dim light took him back to his 
youth and affected him strangely. 
There, at the far end of the room, was 
Carina in a simple black gown direct- 
ing gracefully eight little girls in some 
old-fashioned classic dances. The same 
things he had taught when he first 
came to this country. He wondered 
why he had never noticed before Ca- 
rina’s resemblance to his beloved Ma- 
[ 47 ] 


rietta. He remembered having taught 
Marietta these same dances. Mrs. 
Frempel was playing Boueherin’s 
minuet, and involuntariljT^ he stepped 
forward and struck the attitude of the 
dancing-master. With a glad cry Ca- 
rina ran to him: 

“Oh, you dear, mean, old darling to 
come without telling us.” 

Mrs. Frempel left the piano and 
came forward, expressing her pleasure 
at seeing him again. 

He was shocked at the change he 
saw in her. Her hair had turned gray 
and she looked frail and sad. No 
traces of the proud woman he met first 
remained. 

“Take off your things, and now that 
we have you, we can’t let you go.” 

“No, I cannot do that, I have a cab 
[ 48 ] 


waiting for me with my baggage. I 
am only just come from the steamer. 
Besides, you have your little pupils, 
if you will let me I’ll come back for 
dinner, and you can tell me all about 
yourself.” 

The preparations for dinner that 
night were those for a love feast, but 
the poor woman knew that the moment 
had come when she must tell Carina 
her story. She had only waited for 
the return of their friend, and she 
asked God to give her strength and 
not take little Carina’s love away. The 
dinner was gay, with a little undercur- 
rent of sadness. In spite of the ef- 
forts Mrs. Frempel made, she showed 
her depression. When the dinner 
was over, Sol asked Carina to play one 
of his favorite old Italian songs. He 
[ 49 ] 


sat in front of a small wood fire with 
her mother. When the music stopped 
Mrs. Frempel asked Carina to come 
and sit at her feet on a cushion. She 
was afraid to see the girl’s face while 
she was telling her story: 

“I am sorry,” she began, “to cast a 
shadow upon our happy reunion, but 
I have made up my mind to tell Ca- 
rina her story and mine. And I 
waited for your return to do it, so that 
if she decides to leave me she will have 
a true friend to advise her, and you, 
my friend, who have been so faithful 
and have never asked questions, I feel 
that you will have more respect for me 
if I tell you the story at once. God 
knows it is difficult for me, and I ask 
you to have pity.” 

“But, mother, why tell it?” 

[ 50 ] 


“Oh, don’t, Carina, I must speak. 
I am, not your mother’" 

The girl started to rise. 

Mrs. Frempel put her hands on her 
shoulders and pressed her back. 

“Please wait, Carina, until you’ve 
heard the whole story. Seventeen 
years ago I was a girl not much older 
than you are, studying music in Leip^ 
zig. I had, they said, a wonderful 
voice and a great future. At the 
house of a friend one day I met an 
American, we fell in love and he asked 
me to marry him. I was very inno- 
cent, ver}^ young, and I adored him. 
He was clever. The time came for 
him to join his family in Paris, and 
he asked me to go there with him, 
saying that we would be married there. 
I went with him — and — ^we remained 
[ 51 ] 


in Paris for a week, at the end of 
that time he sailed with his family for 
America. He had not kept his prom- 
ise. We were not married. To my 
pleadings he made excuses, that he 
would soon return, when we would be 
married, and meanwhile I was to re- 
turn to Leipzig and go on with my 
studies. What could I do? I had 
done an impulsive mad thing. I went 
back heart-broken. I w^aited, he never 
came. He wrote and put me off from 
time to time. I went to Paris, and 
there my bab}^ was born. I wrote 
and threatened to come to America 
and, receiving no answer, I cabled 
from the boat I was sailing on for him 
to meet me. He met me and took me 
to a hotel and from that moment I 
was Mrs. Frempel. There I was with 
[ 52 ] 


my baby, and this man told me in cold 
blood that he was married, and had 
been when we first met. What could 
I do? He begged me not to disgrace 
him, and promised he would provide 
for me and my child. Then I became 
bitter and meant to make him pay in 
money for mine and my child’s dis- 
grace. I went on for a time in mad 
extravagance, and then my baby died ^ 
while he was away on a yachting trip, 
and I was left alone with my grief. 
In my loneliness it occurred to me 
that perhaps now that the baby was 
gone he would desert me, too, and I 
should be like many other women of 
my kind; so I decided not to tell him 
of the baby’s death. I persuaded the 
doctor to help me. He sent me to an 
asylum, where I adopted a baby. 

[ 53 ] 


Afraid he might see a difference in the 
child, I decided to leave while he was 
away and went to Paris. He contin- 
ued to supply me with funds. I stud- 
ied and made my debut at the Opera 
Comique with great success. I fully 
determined that as soon as I could 
earn a living by my singing I would 
bring up the child I had grown to love, 
and tell him the truth and accept noth- 
ing more from him. But just as I 
was becoming known I lost my voice, 
and returned here to America, where 
I’ve lived ever since with the torments 
and torture of my secret, knowing that 
one day I should have to confess every- 
thing. As the j^ears went by I could 
not endure that man’s ever-growing 
unkindness for little Carina, and her 
false position haunted me night and 
[ 54 ] 


day. Carina, can you ever forgive 
me? Don’t turn away from me. You 
are all I’ve had all these years. I may 
have been a bad woman, but I have 
always adored you.” 

“Although you are not my mother, 
I love you and I pity you. But who 
am I? Who was my mother? And 
who was my father?” 

“This paper is all I know of you. 
It is written in Italian.” She handed 
it to Sol, who realized, as he listened 
to the story, that Carina was his Ca- 
rina. He recognized his own signa- 
ture on the marriage certificate, which 
he had left with Marietta so many 
years ago. With a glad cry, he took 
Carina in his arms, saying: 

“This is my marriage certificate and 
your mother’s. You are my little Ca- 
[ 55 ] 


rina, for whom I have been searching 
all these years. I must have known it 
from the first. God is good. You 
have found your father, but I lose my 
little Carina.” 

“No, I want you always for my 
mother. No matter what you’ve done. 
No mother could have been kinder to 
me, and I love you.” 

“And I love you,” said Sol. 

“Won’t you continue and be my lit- 
tle girl’s mother?” 


[ 56 ] 



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